


Standard of Care

by Misdemeanor1331



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Auror Hermione Granger, Blood, Doctor/Patient, Explicit Language, F/M, Healer Draco Malfoy, Hurt/Comfort, Medical Jargon, Medical Procedures
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-19
Updated: 2018-11-19
Packaged: 2019-08-25 18:30:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16666003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Misdemeanor1331/pseuds/Misdemeanor1331
Summary: St. Mungo’s doesn’t play politics. They expect their Healers to deliver a high standard of care to every patient, regardless of past associations. But when Hermione discovers that Draco is her assigned Healer, she doubts that St. Mungo’s had ever considered a past association as fraught as theirs.





	Standard of Care

**Author's Note:**

> First, thanks to my beta, eilonwy, for her help with this fic. Any remaining errors are mine. Thanks as well to everyone who nominated me to participate in this year’s fest. It remains one of my favorites, and it wouldn’t be possible without our wonderful mods, Musyc and SG. My prompt for this year was _warm hands_. I hope you enjoy my spin on it.

**Standard of Care**

The exam rooms at St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries are set up almost identically regardless of floor. Each has an exam table, a pair of chairs, and a long counter. Upon the sturdy countertop, on either side of the sink, sit containers of consumable materials: wand sheaths, gauze pads, wooden tongue depressors, new-to-market potions samples. A corner rack of educational material, intentionally placed at eye level, overflows with pamphlets ranging in topic from the importance of exercise and the dangers of smoking to at-home magical triage and hazardous plant identification.

But the rooms aren’t all business. The Healers who use them leave their personal touches behind. Some decorate with photos of their children. Looking around those rooms is like skipping through time, journeying through another’s life from one milestone to the next. The more private Healers choose art as their expression, adorning the walls with classic prints in simple frames, the works detailed or intriguing enough to distract from the silent minutes spent waiting. Bouquets of scentless, everlasting flowers are so ubiquitous that they feel mandatory, though St. Mungo’s has no such requirement formally documented.

Room Two is therefore jarring. Plain, beige walls. Scuffed, not-quite-white countertop. Carefully arranged materials, with not so much as a quill feather out of place.

The depersonalization makes Hermione nervous. She’s already uncomfortable, feeling not only small but young, as she perches on the edge of the exam table. Her ankles are crossed, and her feet dangle several inches above the stepstool. She resists the urge to bump her heels against the table’s drawers and watches the clock instead, twisting her fingers together.

At least they hadn’t made her wear an exam gown. She could leave with some of her dignity still intact.

The rooms are soundproofed for privacy, so she’s surprised when the door opens. Her stomach plummets as her Healer nods a greeting.

“Ms. Granger.”

She can’t muster the same courtesy.

“Malfoy.”

It’s half question, half recrimination, her tone more instinctive than consciously moderated. He ignores it, grey eyes flicking down to read from her chart. As if it’s the first time he’s seen it. As if he hadn’t been as prepared to see her as she was unprepared to see him. She’s at an immediate disadvantage.

“You’re here for your pre-employment physical.” He flips a page, the parchment cut short and straight. “Magical Law Enforcement. Auror Office.”

He sounds surprised; she lifts her chin. He can’t know her own doubts about the decision. And even if he does, she doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction of being right. He must read the challenge in her eyes.

“I’m sure you’ll do well there,” is his only remark. “Arm out, please.”

He snaps his fingers, and a thick, black cuff unwinds itself from his biceps. The leather is scuffed and supple, and Hermione wishes it weren’t so warm as it wraps around her upper arm. The leather ripples, and a line of yellowed stitching shows the rhythm of her heart in a predictable series of spikes. Each peak is accompanied by a high-pitched ping.

“Does St. Mungo’s know?” she asks. “About us, Hogwarts, how we weren’t…”

“Friendly?” Draco glances at her with a quirked eyebrow, then finishes his notation on her chart. “Of course they do. But St. Mungo’s doesn’t play politics. They send us where we’re needed, and we’re expected to deliver a high standard of care regardless of our past associations.”

The pings of the heart rate cuff skip and trot, auditory evidence of the shame that floods her at the implication of a long-held grudge. It had been four years since they graduated Hogwarts. Clearly, Draco had left the past where it belonged.

“The nurse drew your blood, correct?”

Hermione nods.

“I’ll make sure it’s sent off to the analytical lab by end of business today. You’ll receive an owl when your results are in with instructions on how to schedule your follow-up appointment. We’ll discuss your results together and come up with an action plan if we see anything that’s outside the norm. Should take about two weeks. Sound good?”

For as measured and professional as Draco is, the idea of him knowing her — knowing anything about her — sits like an unbalanced weight across her shoulders. She has enough to worry about without adding her Healer to the list.

“Fine,” she lies.

She doesn’t plan on seeing him again.

* * *

 

The white-haired woman sits quietly in the exam room’s corner chair. Her frameless glasses balance on the tip of her nose, and her quill hovers expectantly over her clipboard.

“Ms. Granger, this is Vera Chandler, head of Human Resources for St. Mungo’s.”

Vera gives her a stiff nod, and Hermione looks from her to Draco, hoping he can read the question in her eyes.

“Vera will be observing our session today,” he explains. “She is bound by the same confidentiality rules as the rest of St. Mungo’s staff, so your medical information will remain private.”

While comforting, that is not her concern.

“Why —”

“This is a routine audit, Ms. Granger,” Vera says, her words clipped and impatient. “Standard practice for all our recently certified Healers.”

She has a feeling Vera is lying, and the practiced neutrality on Draco’s face confirms it. The pit in her stomach sinks lower. What had she done?

“Thank you for coming in, Ms. Granger. As I mentioned at your first visit two weeks ago, the purpose of this session is to discuss your blood work results and any actions you may need to take to ensure your health while working with MLE. I’ve reviewed your numbers, and they’re all within the normal ranges.” He holds out a scroll, bound and sealed. “A copy for your records. As a career in MLE can be more stressful than normal, I do recommend you engage in hobbies or extracurriculars that you find relaxing. Meditation, yoga, knitting, gardening, what have you. I recommend this for _all_ of my MLE patients,” he emphasizes, cutting a look to Vera. The woman’s lips purse as her quill scratches across the parchment.

“Any questions?” he asks once the quill steadies.

“No.”

“Then we’re done here, Ms. Granger. Thank you again for making the time.”

Vera is up first, bustling out of the room with her nose in the air. Draco holds the door for her and watches her go, brow drawn. He follows her out; Hermione follows him.

“Malfoy?”

She reaches for his shoulder. He turns around as soon as she makes contact, backing away like she’s a threat. He shoots a final, worried look over his shoulder, but Vera had already turned the corner. Some of the tension leaves his shoulders, and he faces her with a sigh.

“Yes, Ms. Granger?”

“Oh, drop it, will you? There’s no need for formality. Now, what was that about?”

“That, _Ms. Granger_ , was hopefully the end of an investigation that started two weeks ago after an anonymous patient informed St. Mungo’s that she was _uncomfortable_ in my care.”

She feels the resentment simmering off him, radiating like heat from pavement on a scorching summer day. It’s the sting of injustice from an unfair accusation and the frustration of not having control, of being an insect beneath the wheel of a great machine. Heat floods Hermione’s cheeks. Shame. Again.

“I was taken off rounds for a week and threatened with unpaid suspension. All of my appointments since being reinstated have been audited.”

“I didn’t think… I’ll write them, retract it.”

“Don’t bother. You’ve done quite enough already. It’ll just raise more suspicion if they hear from you again.”

Silence hangs between them. Draco takes a measured breath and closes his eyes, searching for calm. Hermione shifts her weight.

“I’m sorry.”

Draco opens his eyes. He focuses on a point over her shoulder, unable — or unwilling — to look her in the eyes.

“Forget it,” he says. “Just keep yourself out of trouble. It’s better for both of us that way.”

* * *

 

“What happened?”

Hermione’s unfocused eyes sharpen. The adrenaline burst from the fight is fading fast, pain and exhaustion making their presence known. She can smell herself — ozone, sweat, singed fabric, blood. It’s obvious what happened: she had lost.

“Severing hex, I think.” She holds her right arm out to him. The Dittany had done its job, and a thin layer of skin had grown over the deep wound. It’s pink and tender, but it isn’t bleeding. Being sent to St. Mungo’s, to Draco, feels like an overreaction.

He snaps his fingers. The heart rate cuff winds around her left biceps and begins its steady pinging.  

“Definitely not creature induced?”

Fenrir Greyback had been on the run for years, but it was only recently that the Auror department had received enough intelligence to start hunting him. The operation was supposed to be confidential. His question makes her wonder how much of it had already been leaked.

“It was a spell,” she confirms.

He lifts her arm with a gloved hand, frowning.

“Dittany only heals the surface wound. It’s useless for subcutaneous injuries.” He rinses the cut with warm water, using a sponge held in forceps to blot away the more stubborn patches of blood. When her skin is clean, he passes his wand over it. Her arm prickles, an itch where she can’t scratch, deep near the bone. A two-inch patch of the fresh skin glows red.

“You’ve got a muscle tear. Transverse laceration of the extensor digitorum and extensor carpi ulnaris, most likely” he mutters. “Flex your fingers for me. Your wrist next, up and down.” She does, and he watches the movements of her hand closely. “Range of motion doesn’t seem affected. It should heal on its own in a month, maybe two. I’ll wrap it, immobilize it —”

“No.”

Draco pauses, a platinum brow arching high.

“ _No_?”

“I’m right handed. I can’t have my wand arm immobilized. Not when they need me in the field.” The hard line of Draco’s mouth indicates that there is no need to elaborate on who _they_ were.

“The Auror department has a medical leave policy.”

“I can’t go on leave.”

“Yes, you can.”

“I _can’t_.” She feels panic building inside her; she needs him to understand. “I can’t sleep when they’re in the field and I’m not,” she confesses. “We’re a team. We’ve always been a team, and if I’m not there to watch their backs, if I’m not there to save them…” She meets his eyes. “Please, Malfoy?”

She holds his hard gaze and her breath. Then, something in him shifts. He looks at her with tired eyes, as if this is just one more misstep in a long line of disappointing decisions.

“Lie back.”

The exam table rises to meet her automatically, adjusting until she is comfortably reclined. Draco takes her arm and positions it away from her body, then adjusts the table so that she is about level with his waist. Though his Healer’s robes guarantee there is nothing to see, she averts her gaze. She looks up at him.

Draco is a competent Healer. She sees it in the way he moves around the room, which, she realizes now, is not sparse, but _lean_ , set up exactly how it needs to be for maximum efficiency. She sees it in his eyes, which are narrowed and focused as he examines her wound again. He’s trained for this as much as she’s trained to be an Auror, and while the lack of control would normally send her into a spiraling panic, she feels none of the typical, terrifying breathlessness. She’s not in control, but he is. And that’s okay.

Draco’s eyes drift to the heart rate cuff and its rapid-fire pinging.

“Glitchy monitor,” he mutters. He wiggles his fingers at it; the pinging stops, but the sprinting display remains. “I’ll have to get a new one.”

Hermione shifts her gaze to the ceiling and makes an affirmative noise in the back of her throat, trying to calm herself.  

“I could be sacked for this, you know.” She startles as frost bites into her arm, a momentary burn that fizzes into nothing. “Local anesthetic,” he explains. “I’m going to reopen the wound and repair the muscle fibers by hand. Do you consent?”

She nods.

“I need to hear it.”

“Yes.”

“I advise you look at the ceiling. Please do your best to hold still. Slight pressure now.”

She can’t help it: she turns her head to watch him work. His wand is slow and steady as it splits her skin, the new growth fraying like torn linen. She squeaks in surprise as blood oozes from the cut; she had barely felt it.

He doesn’t flinch. Part of her expects him to, and maybe he knows it.

“I’ve lived through a war and four years at Hippocrates’ School for the Healing Arts,” he says absently, attention focused on the short, precise movements of his wand. “If that couldn’t teach me that all blood is the same, then nothing could.”

Heat pricks the backs of her eyes, and she shifts her gaze to the blank safety of the drop ceiling. He finishes his work, applying several butterfly stitches to hold the edges of the cut together. A cool salve that smells of the ocean. A gauze bandage. Several strips of medical tape.

“No Dittany?”

“I could write a thesis on the Ministry’s overreliance on Dittany,” he grouses. “Letting the skin heal naturally is less traumatic for the body and results in less scarring. The salve will help. I’ll send you home with a jar.”

She flinches again as he leans over her. He pauses, hands hovering inches in front of her face.

“I want to treat your abrasions. Might as well, while you’re here. Is that okay?”

She swallows thickly but manages a “Yes.”

Draco is gentle as he cleans the blood from her face, his gloved fingers delicate as he applies a thin layer of salve. He doesn’t linger, working instead with a practiced efficiency, as though she’s no different from any other patient. Which is fine. Which is what she wants. Standard of care and all that.

He helps her sit and removes the cuff. The lights dim for a moment, but she blinks the room back into focus and takes the jar he offers.

“Keep the bandage on for tonight but change it first thing tomorrow. Re-apply the salve to your facial abrasions every four to six hours. A thin layer will do.”

“Thanks." 

She eases herself off the table. Immediately, her knees give out. She feels herself falling, sees a patch of floor rushing toward her, and braces for the pain. Then she stops, jerking against the strong pair of arms that had wrapped around her just in time. A snap winds the cuff around her arm once more, and Draco lowers her into a chair. He squats so that they are eye level and presses warm fingers into the pulse at her neck. The room sways, and she closes her eyes.

“Have you ever fainted at the sight of blood before?”

“No.”

“Did you eat lunch today?”

She opens her eyes enough to give him an incredulous look.

“I’ve been a little busy.”

The corner of Draco’s mouth twitches.

“Is there anyone you can Floo when you get home?”

“Ron,” she offers. “Or Harry.” Provided they had completed their debrief. They probably hadn’t.

Draco’s expression flickers, the professionalism disappearing to indulge in something human. It’s gone before she can name it.

“Good. You shouldn’t be alone tonight.”

She nods, knowing she won’t Floo either of them. She wants to curl up with her blanket and her cat and just sleep.

Draco makes her drink a glass of water before letting her stand, and his hand lingers just below her elbow, ready to catch her again if needed. He accompanies her down the hall to reception.

“If you don’t feel better by the morning, Floo me.”

“At the manor? I don’t —”

“Here, Granger. Floo me here.” He gives her an appraising look. “Are you sure you’re well enough to travel?”

“Yes.”

Merlin, _yes_. She needs to leave before she says anything else she’ll regret.

* * *

 

It’s been a long morning. Even after sleeping straight through the night and arriving late to the Ministry, Hermione still feels fuzzy, like her brain isn’t processing how it ought to. She probably should have taken leave. Robards would’ve understood. But she had a report to file and leads to follow up on — too much and too urgent to let sit, even for a day.

She hears his voice from across the office, the timbre rich and low, as if it had been specifically tuned for her ears. She looks up before she can remember all the reasons not to, before she can worry about what her eyes may give away.

Draco is at the elevator. He’s asking for her.

He looks different out of his Healer’s robes; lime green doesn’t suit him, but what’s beneath does. A blue Oxford rolled up at the sleeves. Tailored grey slacks, creased and wrinkled from the night’s work. His eyes narrow when they meet hers, and he wends his way through the office, a focused line of attention in a hive of activity.

He stops at her desk. She looks up at him and tries not to smile.

“What are you doing here?”

“You spent the night alone.”

Her heart skips several beats.

“How do you know?”

“I asked.”

She shoots a glare to the kitchenette, where Harry and Ron stand like wary guards. Harry sips his tea, studying them unabashed. Ron’s arms are crossed and his wand is drawn. It’s as if he’s looking for any excuse to hurl a hex across the low cubicle walls. Draco follows her gaze.

“Is there somewhere we can go?”

Her stomach plummets.

“Conference room.” She feels the weight of every eye in the office as she leads him to the small corner huddle space.

The door closes, and they stand facing one another, the air between them as anticipatory as that before a storm.

“You didn’t have to —”

“My shift ended and I —”

They trail off at the same time. Draco gestures her to continue.

“You didn’t have to come by. I would’ve called had anything gone wrong.”

“Because you have an excellent track record of following simple instructions.” His lips form a smirk, but there’s a current of censure lurking beneath the expression. He pulls out a chair for her and seats himself adjacent.

“Roll up your sleeve, please.”

She holds her forearm out to him, and he cups her elbow in his right palm, cradling her arm atop his. His fingers steady her elbow as he removes the bandage. The edges of the butterfly sutures are brown with dried blood, and the wound itself — which would have been wet with newly forming scab in ordinary circumstances — had crusted over thanks to the salve.

He closes his eyes and passes his wand over the healing incision.

“What are you doing?” 

“Diagnostic spell. Please be quiet.”

“Malfoy, I —”

He shushes her and continues the process, and she doesn’t know whether to watch her arm or his face. She decides, unwisely, perhaps, on the latter, and makes a study of his brow line, currently drawn in concentration. She flicks her gaze back to her arm when she sees it ease.

“The muscle fibers are all holding strong. You may experience a little soreness over the next few days, but as long as you’re careful, you’ll be fine.”

“Thanks to you. You’re a talented Healer.”

Their eyes meet, and Hermione’s heart speeds up as he leans in toward her. Her eyes flutter closed. She feels the tug of adhesive and a flood of disappointment as he peels back the bandage on her forehead.

“You dressed these recently,” he notes.

“This morning.”

He checks the one on her chin next.  

“You’ve felt okay? No lightheadedness? Dizziness?”

Only right now, when he’s closer to her than he’s ever been. When she can see the light growth of blond fuzz on his cheeks and smell the mint on his breath. When he’s touching her with the kind of care one would take with a beloved object and making her feel things she hadn’t in years.

“Granger?”

His fingers pause at the tip of her chin, his grey eyes completing the question.

“I’m fine,” she says. “Just fine.”

* * *

 

The ward doors crash open. Hermione runs beside a team of Junior Healers, their shamrock-green robes whipping behind them as their momentum builds. Ron lies atop the gurney they’re steering, still and stiff, his wide blue eyes sightless, apparently comatose.

She sees him at the end of the hallway, looking like salvation against a backdrop of sun-bright fluorescence.

“Malfoy!”

His assessment is quick: her, the Juniors, the gurney. His eyes go flinty in decision, and his strides are long and fast. He meets them halfway down the main hall.

“O’Callaghan, deal with this.” He shoves the clipboard he’s holding into the chest of the nearest Junior. “Disarro, find Pham and tell her we’ve an urgent case in Ten. Vayeda, Room Ten — prep it. Now. Full potion complement and a quarantine, just in case.”

The Juniors scatter as they receive their orders. Draco turns to her next.

“What happened?”

“We were chasing a lead. Ron was hit. I don’t know —”

She looks at Ron. His unnervingly blank eyes. The unmelting snowflakes in his hair. She touches his arm; his skin is like ice.

“Triage?”

She looks back to Draco.

“None. We brought him straight here.”

“Where’s Potter?”

“At the Ministry, debriefing. He didn’t see anything.”

Draco turns to the remaining Junior.

“We need to stabilize him, Nagle. Start with the vitals, deep to shallow. End with magic. Can you cast it on the move?”

Nagle nods. He hands off control of the cart, and Draco keeps it moving, arcing it smoothly around a tight corner. The Junior starts a steady chant, each syllable enunciated precisely.

“ _Animfirmum_. _Corfirmum_. _Cerefirmum_. _Mensfir—_ ”

Ron’s body lifts, his back bowing in an impossible arch before crashing back down. He bounces hard off the gurney’s meager padding and starts to spasm. Draco lunges and heaves Ron’s seizing body back onto the cart.

“Shite! Nagle, hold him down, shoulders only! Let me —”

Hermione screams and presses forward, desperate to help. The space around Ron is suddenly full; she hadn’t noticed the arrival of so many Healers. A grip like iron wraps around her arm and wrenches her back. The change in momentum is so sudden that she collides with the corridor wall.

“Back off, Granger!” Draco shouts. He points to a grey-robed orderly. “Keep her here!”

And then his hand is replaced with someone else’s, and she’s watching him sprint down the hall with Ron. They turn another corner, and Hermione suddenly feels the press of the terror she had been holding at bay.

“Are you okay, miss?” the orderly asks. “You’re shaking.”

She looks down at her hands, balls them into fists. She has to keep it together.

“Is there somewhere I can sit down?”

He leads her to a waiting room and stands guard in the corner. She sits in a padded chair and does the only thing she can: waits, with her knees drawn up to her chin, head aching, and eyes red-rimmed but dry.

Eventually, a hand settles on her shoulder.

Harry.

She stands and throws her arms around him. He squeezes her once, then holds her at arm’s length.

“How is he?”

“I don’t know. They stabilized him, or tried to. Then he started seizing, and —”  

Harry’s eyes close as he absorbs the news in the quiet, tired way he had perfected over a lifetime of uncertainty and sacrifice.

“How long has it been?”

“Twenty minutes? Thirty? I’m not sure. I was going to ask —”

“Granger?”

Draco stands a few feet away. His eyes flick between her and Harry, performing a calculus that she can’t bother to correct at the moment. Harry lets her go.

“How is he?”

“Weasley’s doing okay for now. We’ve stabilized him.”

“Is he awake?” Hermione asks.

“No.”

“What happened?”

Draco looks back to Harry.

“I can’t tell you that. Has his family been contacted?”

“They’re in transit,” Harry confirms. “We need to know what hit him, Malfoy. The Ministry —”

“Needs to wait until I update his family. This may not make sense to you, Potter, but I have protocols to follow. There are rules here.”

The fire of their old rivalry lights like dry tinder. Harry takes a step closer.

“What are you saying, Malfoy?”

Draco lifts his chin.

“Nothing you don’t already know.”

Hermione forces herself between them, puts a hand on Harry’s chest.

“That’s enough. This isn’t the time to —”

Her lecture is forestalled by a shout, and Ginny crashes into Harry’s arms a moment later. Molly and George trail behind her, looking pale and scared. Hermione stands at Draco’s shoulder. Though she has known them for years and is treated like family, this feels different. Intrusive. Private. Draco looks equally out of his depth, and though she itches to take his hand, for his comfort or her own, this is not the time.

He clears his throat, interrupting the reunion.  

“If you’ll follow me,” he says to the Weasleys.

“Tell us here,” Ginny says. “We’re just going to tell Harry and Hermione anyway.”

Draco looks at Molly for confirmation. The older witch nods.

“Very well. If you’ll _all_ follow me, then.”

* * *

 

Hermione closes the door on the sound of laughter and the smell of warm cocoa. The Weasleys had brought Christmas to the Spell Damage ward in typical fashion, festooning Ron’s recovery room with baubles and lights, a transfigured tree, a very suggestive bunch of mistletoe, a pile of presents, and the traditional feast. It’s warm and lovely, and Hermione is grateful to be part of it, but there’s someone else who deserves her gratitude today.

She wanders to the Junior Healers’ station and flips through the hospital directory. Draco’s office is on the other side of the ward. The halls are quiet as she walks, which gives her plenty of opportunity to doubt herself. To second-guess the feelings that had been growing since she had first seen him six months ago.

She hesitates, her fist hovering over the plane of his office door, but the choice is made for her when the door swings open. Draco stands before her, his traveling cloak slung over an arm. She lowers her hand.

“You’re on your way out,” she says, feeling awkward.

“I have a few minutes.”

He steps back and welcomes her in, letting the door swing shut behind her. He sets his cloak aside, leans back on his desk, and waits, watching her like she’s a fascinating experiment just starting to yield results. She feels the pressure of his expectations and tries not to show it.

“Thank you for letting the Weasleys celebrate together.”

“Not the first time they’ve done so in here, I’ve learned.”

She smiles, but it feels wrong. Too tight. Too forced.

“Ron’s doing well today,” she says to fill the stretching silence. “He’s only had one seizure. Lasted twenty seconds or so. No ataxia at all.”

“Glad to hear it.”

But of course he already knows. Ron’s brain activity is constantly monitored and will be until Draco deems him well enough to be released.

“He should only need another week of treatment,” he says, as though anticipating her question. “Then you can take him home.”

The way he says it. The clipped tone. The downcast eyes. The flicking turn of his wrist to expose his watch face. She’s keeping him from his own holiday, but there’s more to it than that. She wonders if the calculus he’d done after Ron’s admission to St. Mungo’s had shifted variables.

“We appreciate everything you’ve done for him. Lavender does too.”

Draco’s brows lift, and the light of renewed hope in his eyes confirms her suspicions.

“Brown?”

Hermione nods.

“She’s been on assignment in Japan working on a story for the _Daily Prophet_. She’s not able to Portkey back until mid-January, but we’ve told her everything. I know she’ll want to thank you personally when she returns.”

“It’s nothing,” he says, so rote it sounds like habit. “It’s my job.”

“I know it’s your job, but it’s not nothing.” She twists a box wrapped in silver paper from the air and offers it to him. “Thank you.”

He keeps his hands on the desk and shakes his head.

“I can’t accept gifts from patients.”

“You’re not currently in the process of treating me, so I’m not technically your patient.” She wiggles the box. “You’re not breaking the St. Mungo’s Code of Ethical Conduct. I already checked with Legal.”

An amused grin flashes across his face.

“Of course you did.”

He takes his time with the wrapping and gently moves the green tissue paper aside. Then, he stops. A new heart rate cuff. Pristine white stitching. Shiny black leather, smooth and supple. He snaps. The cuff rises like an obedient serpent and wraps around Draco’s biceps. Their eyes meet.

“It wasn’t glitchy,” he confesses, voice low.

Hermione swallows the lump in her throat.

“I know.”

She doesn’t remember closing the distance between them, but she will always remember the kiss, firm then yielding, sweet and long overdue. Her lingering uncertainty melts away with the feel of his warm hands on her hips and the sound of his heart, the high-pitched pings racing along in time with hers.

**The End**


End file.
